


you didn't teach me this (but i learned it from you)

by medusaegis



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: but it's only talked about it's not actually portrayed, cw for major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 23:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14704761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusaegis/pseuds/medusaegis
Summary: as requested by my lovely dear friend deb; ethel and mildred run into each other years later, when their faces are full of lines and their hair is greying.





	you didn't teach me this (but i learned it from you)

it’s a quiet day for a memorial service. like the world knows that two of its brightest inhabitants are being mourned. the birdsong is dull. the sun is hiding behind a cover of clouds that takes up the entire sky. the darkness casts everything in a sort of somber grayish light, one that mildred would normally charm away with a wave of her hand. today, however, she lets it stay. it doesnt feel right for the sun to shine and the flowers to bloom on the day they are acknowledging the loss of pippa pentangle and hecate hardbroom, two of the finest witches to ever live. 

a small tear escapes from mildred’s eye, and she feels it trail down her cheek and drop from her chin before she wipes it away. she sets her shoulders, raises her chin, imagines miss hardbroom’s critical eye is on her before she marches into the memorial hall. 

she stops short just past the second archway, gaze caught by the sheer exorbitance of it all. the hall is larger than it looked from the outside, it’s ceilings going up taller even than the yorkminster -mildred and maud once measured the height from their brooms, just to see if they could. yorkminster is  _tall_  - eventually the buttresses and columns disappear into a starry sky that has been magicked to show instead of stone. the seven sisters constellation is the most obvious, one that mildred knows both miss hardbroom and miss pentangle loved. every few minutes a shooting star glides across the sky. mildred sniffles, looking up at it. it’s tacky, but it’s so, so fitting for the memory of her two greatest mentors. 

there are benches along the length of the room, forming a perimeter of dark cherrywood. some witches and wizards are sitting on them, reading from pamphlets. others gather around the columns or the floating trays of honeywine, chatting in hushed tones. in the center of it all is a great fire, burning in between the portraits of pippa and hecate. pippa’s portrait is every bit the replica of how she had been; gentle eyes, a charming smile, and a general pink glow. it’s a warm portrait, and looking at it mildred’s lips turn up without her bidding. 

miss hardbroom- hecate’s portrait is harder to look at. mildred only just manages to glance at the tip of her pointed black witching hat before the grief blooms up in her. it’s more than she anticipated. she squeezes her eyes shut in an effort to quell the tide of sorrow in her breast that is trying to force its way out. hecate had meant so much to mildred, for all her life. not only a teacher and form mistress, miss hardbroom had come to be a trusted mentor, a mother figure after julie had passed, and even a cherished friend. mildred knew that witches’ lifespans are only about twice as long as non-magical people, but she never considered the idea that hecate hardbroom wouldnt live forever. 

somehow she has to wrap her mind around it now. 

a light touch on her elbow has mildred whirling around, facing away from the portraits. she takes a second to gather her strength before opening her eyes and gazing into enid’s concerned face. her friend still looks beautiful for all their years. mildred thinks with a touch of insincere envy that time has treated enid better than any of them. her skin is still smooth, her hair mostly black. her face has long since lost the baby fat that clung to her cheeks at cackle’s, so now it’s angular and regal. she’s less skinny than mildred, who, on bad days, thinks her own body looks so frail it might blow away. mildred’s hair has long since gone gray, and her face is full of more lines than she knows how to count. ‘the spirit is the same,’ pippa used to say, ‘no matter the age.’ 

“millie,” enid’s voice is hushed, gravelly. like she, too, is fighting tears. “you don’t have to be here, you know. it’s okay if you want to leave.” 

mildred sighs. shuffles closer to enid and lays her head on enid’s shoulder. sighs again. enid’s arms wrap around mildred and pull her into a hug. she holds mildred there, rubbing her back with one hand and holding her close with the other. and, blessedly, pretends not to notice when mildred shakes with repressed sorrow.

“maud should be here soon.” she says, her voice more than anything is what soothes mildred’s tears, but the knowledge that her other best friend is on her way helps too. enid was -is- a dear friend to mildred, and they have bonded in ways that mildred thinks maybe no one else could understand. but maud has been by her side since day one. since before the very first time that hecate hardbroom came into her life. 

mildred pulls back from enid after another couple of minutes, sniffling. she looks regretfully at the splotch of wet on enid’s shoulder, but enid doesn’t seem to notice, or care. she holds mildred by the elbows and looks into her face, searching for something.

“are you sure you want to be here?” she asks. 

mildred nods. enid’s eyes narrow, and mildred takes a second to actually think about it. about how she feels. about if she can handle this memorial service. about if this is the right way, the right  _moment_  to let go of pippa and hecate.  ultimately she decides that yes, this is the right time. enid stares at her a moment more when she tells her, sizing mildred up, making sure she’s sincere, looking for something in her expression. eventually she seem’s to find it, because she nods and lets go of mildred, tapping mildred’s elbows twice before settling her hands back at her sides.

“good.”

“good?”

“good. maud’s right over there.” 

milred directs her gaze to where enid is pointinig. maud has just entered and just as quickly been pulled aside by some well-to-do couple of wizards. after graduating cackle’s maud had quickly become a spell-science prodigy. now, decades, an entire lifetime later, maud is one of the most sought-after spell-scientists of the age. mildred couldn’t be more proud of her best friend. 

maud manages to extricate herself from the conversation and makes her way over to them. 

“millie, enid. it’s been ages.” she greets them warmly, pulling each into a hug. she ignores mildred’s puffy eyes, absentmindedly pulls a hankie from somewhere -maybe from nowhere- and tucks it into mildred’s hands. mildred tries not to cry harder. even just the presence of her oldest friend is enough to make her feel safe and loved. now like many times before she is overwhelmed

“shame they’re gone.” maud nods over to the memorial fire and the portraits. enid nods with her, and they each take one of mildred’s hands, leading her over to one of the floating trays of honeywine to grab a drink and loosen her grief. they’re less vocal about it, but mildred can tell that the loss of hecate and pippa hurts them just as much as her. she can’t imagine being without them to manage this.

“well met, and thank you all for joining me in remembering the lives of two remarkable, extraordinary witches,” the memorial service begins. “hecate hardbroom and pippa pentangle may no longer be with us, but their lives remain in our hearts…” 

mildred stops listening, she’s one more overwhelming feeling short of interrupting the service and leaving. only the steady presence of her friends at her sides keeps her feeling solid and stable. 

“mildred hubble.” 

mildred hasn’t heard her own name spoken with that specific ratio of contempt, jealousy, distaste, and familiarity in years. since her school days, really. she turns around to look in to the face of a woman she used to despise.

“ethel hallow.” 

ethel has the decency to look uncertain, shy even to the point at which mildred barely recognizes her. ethel has grown beyond the severe, old-fashioned girl that mildred remembers her as. 

“well met, after so long.” ethel even sounds nervous, her bow to mildred is rough and so much more uneven than her usual practiced movements. mildred looks at her for a moment. is ethel angry with her? does she think mildred has had something to do with hecate’s death? is she going to antagnize mildred over this gaping, open wound in mildred’s heart? does she want to  humiliate mildred over the fact that two of the most important witches in her life disappeared into the mists of the floating island and never came back? that mildred could have gone after them and found them and brought them back and the world wouldnt be colorless and lightless and-

“i trust you’re doing well?” 

mildred snaps out of her own mind, blinks at ethel, registers the absolute sincerity in the other woman’s eyes.

“oh.”

ethel looks expectantly,  _hopefully_  at mildred. 

“right, uh, well met, ethel.” she slaps a hand to her forehead, bows hastily, her usual schtick. ethel actually smiles at the routine. “i’m alright, actually. doing well but…” she glances over to the fire, to the portraits, pippa’s pink and hecate’s that she still can’t look at without breaking apart. 

“i understand.” ethel says without prompting, and from her expression mildred can tell that ethel  _does_  understand. “i’m so sorry for your loss. miss hardbroom and miss pentangle were invaluable members of the witching community. we all mourn for them,” there it is, mildred thinks, ethel doesn’t actually care to acknowledge mildred’s personal grief. doesn’t actually care about mildred at all.

“but i recognize your grief for what it is, mildred hubble.” ethel continues. “i know miss hardbroom felt much the same when miss cackle passed, and i, well, esmeralda hasnt been the same since our mother died.” she takes mildred’s hands in her own, squeezes gently. her skin is cool to the touch, the wrinkles on her hands as familiar as mildred’s own, despite their history of mutual insensitivity. 

a weight that mildred didnt know was in her is lifted.

“how could she leave us?” mildred whispers.

ethel’s smile is sad and empathetic. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to leave you, mildred. but not even hecate hardbroom can stay on this earth forever.” 

the rest of the ceremony is sad and painful. each witch and wizard present conjures a flower of their choice and adds it to the fire, which burns bright and colorful in turn. maud conjures a red rose, guides it to settle against the embers where it curls up and turns to ash. enid conjures a pair of violets, throws them quickly into the fire and turns away just as soon as she’s done so. it looks almost disrespectful, if the tears gathering in her eyes weren’t clearly visible. when it’s mildred’s turn to cast she steps up and closes her eyes. takes a deep breath.

she imagines the day she’d graduated cackles and her mum had brought her a small bouquet of lilies. when she’d left for weirdsister and found a vase full of fresh daisies on her dresser in her new dorm room, a note handwritten on pink stationary telling her to treasure her time there, and how proud of herself she must be. she imagines the pink hyacinths hecate had brought on the day they buried her mum, remembers the comfort she had found in that small act of kindness. when mildred opens her eyes a glowing bouquet of all these flowers is floating in front of her, waiting to be dropped into the fire. 

she can’t do it.

the flowers shake in the air in front of her, in the middle of all these people who have come to pay their respects to pippa and hecate. mildred is not paying respects. she loved,  _loves_  pippa and hecate, and for all her years of age, mildred is terrified of a life bereft of the women who were her greatest inspirations.

another witch steps up to mildred’s side. it must be enid, who has always supported her. slowly a lily appears in the air next to mildred’s bouquet, a daisy materializes the next second, and a hyacinth the next. mildred blinks at the three flowers, similar in species to hers, but not in appearance. the glow that surrounds them is purple to mildred’s red, and the flowers are a bit smaller than hers. slowly, finally, a single foxglove blossom manifests among the flowers. mildred turns to look at the witch responsible, and it’s ethel, rather than enid, whom she finds next to her, eyes brimming with tears. together they send the flowers into the fire. 

-

mildred isnt jewish, but pippa was, and had no other family alive, so mildred takes it upon herself to cover her mirrors, light a candle, and set up some low stools. she invites all the mourners to her home, wears a rent cloth pinned to her cardigan, and keeps her doors unlocked for any who want to come. she isnt jewish, so she doesnt say any of the prayers or anything like that, but she’d been there when pippa had done all of this for her own mother. she knows how important it had been to her, hopes that pippa would be alright with it now.

maud and enid stay with her that week, the three of them curling up in one queen-sized bed like they’re still young witches-in-training back at cackle’s. maud’s family is back at home with maud’s husband, enid’s daughter is staying there too. the three have this time to be with each other. they take turns telling stories about their lives, about the lives of hecate and pippa, about their impact.

“i’ve never met two people who were so clearly made for each other,” maud says. enid glances shyly at mildred, but looks away before she can see. mildred nods her agreement. 

“they had something special.” mildred says. “they were something special.” 

“took them way too long to figure it out, though.” enid bemoans, grinning, and the three giggle at the thought.

“remember in first year when miss pentangle came for the spelling bee?” maud recalls. “i’d never seen miss hardbroom so jittery.”

“they hadnt exchanged a civil word in thirty years.” mildred reminds. “but they were both too full of themselves to notice that the other was awfully in love.” 

enid giggles. “you’d think people would know how to recognize love like that after thirty years of feeling it.” 

maud squints over at her, then sneaks a look at mildred, who has one hand entwined with enid’s over her heart. maud snorts.

“what?” mildred asks.

“nothing.” maud answers. “i love you both.”

-

seven days later mildred’s uncovering the mirrors when ethel knocks on her door. at first she doesn’t know it’s ethel, calls “come in!” over her shoulder as she balances precariously on her wardrobe to unpin the black cloth from above the mirror. when she doesn’t hear the door open she clambers off the wardrobe and makes her way to the front hall, wiping her hands on her jeans. when she opens the door she thinks that ethel has never looked more precisely, perfectly witchy, and never more nervous either.

“mildred,” she says hastily, sounding like she’s been surprised even though she’s the one who knocked on mildred’s door. “well met, i hoped i’d find you here.”

“well met,” mildred returns somewhat stiffly. “this is my house.”

“…right.”

the silence stretches, and ethel looks so pained that mildred moves aside and waves her in. 

“i don’t have much time.” ethel says.

“come in anyway.” mildred returns. 

ethel does, making her way awkwardly to the kitchen, she only sits down at the table when mildred asks her to, and even then she barely touches the chair when she moves it out to sit in.

“do you want some tea?” mildred asks, already filling up the electric kettle. she knows she could conjure up some tea with her magic, is sure that that’s what ethel imagined when mildred offered, but the mundanity of using an electric kitchen appliance has always comforted her. she likes the process. 

“that’s alright,” ethel says. “i wont be staying long.” 

mildred sets up a mug of earl gray for her anyway. leans against the counter while she waits for the water to boil.

“what’s on your mind, ethel hallow?” 

ethel looks so uncertain, mildred is uncomfortable for her.

“i came to, well, to apologize.” she says. mildred blinks.

“for what?”

“for how i acted, how i treated you at school.”

“ethel, that was ages ago. i thought we were over it?” the water boiler clicks, and mildred fills up the two mugs. she brings them to the table, plopping down into a chair and sliding one of the mugs to ethel, who takes it and wraps her fingers around it.

“i know it was a long time ago-”

“try forty years.” 

“mildred, i’m serious.”

“right,” mildred drops her grin. “i’m sorry. go on.” 

“i have known for years, decades, that i was nasty and cruel to you during our childhood. you didnt deserve that treatment, no matter who your family was or what kind of student you were.” mildred nods, waits for ethel to continue. “i cant take back my actions, but i want to apologize to you. i am really, truly-”

“ethel.” mildred holds up a hand to interrupt. “i know you’re sorry. i don’t care.”

“but, i want to make this right-”

“i know. it doesn’t matter, it’s in the past. i don’t need any apologies from you or anyone else.” 

ethel stares down at her tea, clearly unhappy, but she says nothing. 

“what is it?” 

“how will we be anything more than schoolyard enemies if you won’t even let me make up for what i did?” 

mildred tuts. 

“that’s not what i said. i said i don’t want you to apologize.”

“then-”

“you can make up for it. i’m going to hecate’s garden tomorrow night, she and pippa used to tend it together, and since they disappeared i’ve been trying to keep up with it. it’s difficult with only one person.”

“maud and enid?”

“are busy with their families, i wouldn’t want to take them away from that.” mildred smiles. “would you look after the garden with me?”

ethel stares hard at her, gauging how serious mildred is. all the stress and tension and anxiety inside seem to well up in her face, so that mildred can see just how much this means to her. she’s taken aback a bit by the intensity of the emotion ethel is putting on display, and then all at once the tension drains away. ethel nods shortly.

“i’ll be there.” 

“great!” mildred smiles, lets out a little whoop of joy. not one that would overwhelm ethel too much, but jubilant enough that ethel knows she means it. 

“i’ll try not to take you away from your Great Witch responsibilities for too long.” she promises. 

ethel’s smile is sunny when she answers. “don’t worry about that,” she says. “the Great Witch can do whatever she pleases. tomorrow i please to tend a garden.”

and she does. 

the next evening mildred transfers to hecate’s hillside garden to find that ethel has already begun pruning the juniper bushes. the foxglove beside her already looks wholly tamed and glowing, a sort of healthy aura that mildred has never been able to achieve with that particular plant. 

“miss hardbroom taught me to care for foxglove, among other things.” ethel explains. “when i was younger and needed more structure. it helped me focus.”

“you needed structure?” mildred doesn’t quite believe her.

“yes.” ethel answers simply. “not like you. i didn’t have all that raw power that you had, so lacking in control. mine was perfectly in hand. but my emotions weren’t. i was too coarse, my feelings too rough and crude. miss hardbroom helped me to deal with them when even my mother turned me away.” 

mildred fingers the foxglove, letting a cool leaf rest in her hand. “i never knew.” she murmurs.

“no one really did.” 

“ethel?”

“hm?” 

“why now? you could have come to apologize long ago, when you first realized you might have to. why after forty years?”

ethel sighs. 

“i suppose i was too afraid of it.”

“you?” mildred says drily. “afraid?”

ethel laughs softly. “yes. i was afraid you would turn me away, or treat me horribly in return. and i guess i always thought there would be more time, that i could do it later.” she sighs again, and mildred doesn’t have to look to know she’s holding back tears. “miss hardbroom’s disappearance reminded me that even with our witches’ lifespans, we don’t have all the time in the world. i wanted to make sure i didnt die without your forgiveness.”

mildred looks up at the stars, considering. she imagines hecate up there, and pippa too. imagines what they thought of ethel, what they would think of this now. she imagines hecate is looking down at them with one of those rare, sad smiles on her face. imagines that this is what hecate has wanted for years, maybe even since that silly friendship trap that miss cackle had put on them.

“you have it,” she murmurs to ethel, but also to the stars. “you’ve always had it, ethel,” and here she faces her old schoolmate again, notices the tears in both of their eyes. “if you were worth it to miss hardbroom, to hecate, then you’re worth it to me.” 

and she imagines that pippa is tearing up among the stars, saying something to hecate like “oh isn’t that so sweet? we’ve been waiting for this for years.” and hecate doesn’t answer but the pride in her imaginary eyes is fulfillment enough for mildred. enough for ethel, who begins to teach mildred the secrets of growing magical foxglove. and mildred thinks that maybe hecate didnt teach her this on purpose, and taught this to ethel on purpose, because she was waiting for something like this to happen. 

and mildred sends a quiet spell of thanks to the stars. 


End file.
